


Underneath

by SnowStormSkies



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Alternative Sexuality, Crossdressing, Gen, Genderfluid, Genderqueer Character, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowStormSkies/pseuds/SnowStormSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill is different from everybody else but it's deeper than just some mascara and a twinkle in his eye. Bill marches to the beat of his own drum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the prompt of FETISH for the October Mini Bingo but I'm not really convinced it fits into that word so well. It could, however, fit into the same world as Running Doesn't Change Anything, Cool Water, Holding Back, and Against the Wall if you squinted. Thanks to casey270 for the beta!

  
  


Other people might call it a fetish but Bill does _not_ have a fetish.

He has a penchant. A liking for something. A preference. An inclination or a natural desire for something but he does not have a _fetish._

Fetish implies something that’s purely sexual, something that gets Bill off before he goes back to a different way of life, one that’s perfectly normal. It reduces the value of what he loves, makes it sound crude, and bad, and weird.

Bill does not approve of that. At all.

And because what it’s for, his penchant, people might call him weird or dirty or whatever because they don’t understand it. They don’t share the same appreciation Bill has, the same attitude of _I wear what I want and I enjoy it_ that Bill has spent years cultivating.

  
He’s also spent too many years fighting off the stupid looks, the stones that bullies threw, the laughter and the jeers, and the _faggot, pussy, gay boy_ insults that flew thick and fast. Precious years, sullied by idiots and hate.

From the very beginning, with spiked hair and dog collars and skirts in tartan with shit kicking boots, Bill’s almost aggressively pursued an alternative fashion with single minded focused. He started in the thrift shops near his home, digging in the girls’ racks and bins while Tom sat on the counter and watched, hunting out bargains for two or three euros that he could rip or sew into something awesome and perfect. He did that for years before he could graduate up to shopping in department stores and avoiding the raised eyebrows of the sales clerks.

Once Bill reached the top, once he got to the fucking pinnacle of his success, the eyebrows came down and the sales people started _helping_ him look for clothes. They couldn’t throw them at him fast enough. Piles of blouses, endless heaps of shoes, mountains of jeans and t-shirts and cardigans.

And Bill _loved_ it then and he loves it now. He adores it. He sought after it all the time because there is no feeling in the world quite like silk against his skin, lace against his hips, the way his feet ache and burn after four hours walking around a strange city with a camera following his every move.

It’s an addiction, some might say, but Bill doesn’t care.

He is in heaven when he can take it up to eleven.

He likes to blur the gender lines – using make up, clothes, the way he stands and the way he walks, all of it adds up to a carefully designed _fuck you_ in the face of the majority, the rank and file of people who flick their papers and grumble when Bill’s on the front cover of a magazine or something.

Whatever it is, shoes, shirts, jackets, make up, underwear, Bill enjoys it. He likes it.

He likes pushing into people’s comfort zones with his outfit, confusing them because they want to read him one way and he’s not letting that happen. They want to see him as female but Bill’s dick or his voice or the hair on his arms won’t let them do that and he’s proud of that.

People like labels, people like rules to match people to expectations, and when Bill deliberately fucks with that, ruins their carefully made designs, it makes him _happy_. The world isn’t supposed to be neat and tidy – it’s supposed to be a mess, hard to fathom and all the stronger because of it.

He’s part of that world.

Bill doesn’t see the point of carefully labelled boxes, like the one that Tom clings to with the tag of “Male” on it. Tom swaggers around calling himself a man, subscribing to porn magazines not because he wants to – Tom really doesn’t read them that often – but because society tells him he should. He’s always telling people about how much sex he has or how much he wants to fuck a girl not because that’s what he _actually_ thinks, but because it’s what he thinks people want to hear.

It really isn’t but that’s beside the point.

Tom is a victim of those boxes, that labelling system that Bill refuses to knuckle down to. He doesn’t need to kowtow to it. Bill doesn’t understand the ideology behind “Men wear this and walk like this and women don’t because they’re like this instead.” Why should he do it like that?

Because there are good parts in both worlds and why should Bill limit himself because of some arbitrary, unwritten rules that some tosspot made up fifty years ago?

Bill’s a careful crossing between the two, cherry picking from both worlds to make himself something he likes, and making something that’s of neither world out of the parts.

Silk panties in burgundy, men’s skinny jeans, women’s boots with a four inch heel in black leather, a shirt that was technically a men’s shirt but it was custom tailored to Bill’s exact specifications, a coat that was so awesome that Bill had to have it even though it said _women’s_ in the back…

Who cares what labels the individual clothes had as long as they added up to make _**Bill**_ ?

There’s nothing better than going for shock and awe when people won’t take him seriously, so Bill’s going to walk out onto that red carpet with his head held up high, and he’s going to enjoy it.

It’s not a fetish when it’s a lifestyle.

It’s not a fetish when it’s a part of who you are.

It’s not a fetish when it’s something so deep inside that it _needs_ to come out outside of sex, and dominance, and on the other side of the sheets. The side that everyone can see.

But it’s nice when it happens between the sheets too.

That’s another story, though.

One that has _many_ happy endings, too.


End file.
